


Scrub

by larkscape



Series: VLD Kinktober 2018 [4]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Kinktober 2018, M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 00:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkscape/pseuds/larkscape
Summary: Shiro has dealt with a large number of disgusting things in his time with the Voltron team, and most of the experiences he honestly cherishes because they're so much better than the hell that preceded them. Even the worst he can suffer quietly, with aplomb.Mud, however, remains one of his least favorite. The only good thing about mud is that it can be washed off.This particular mud is failing at even that.





	Scrub

**Author's Note:**

> Kinktober 2018: Day 24 - Shower/Bath

 

Shiro doesn't think he'll ever understand the appeal of mud baths.

Mud is thick, and slimy, and it squelches unpleasantly between your toes when it gets into your boots (which it always manages to do), and it sucks at your limbs when you need to move. If it's in a bog, it has the added bonus of the sour-sweet stench of rotting vegetation. That particular miasma sticks to your skin and your clothes and your _hair._

Mud is _gross._ On a visceral level.

Shiro has dealt with a large number of disgusting things in his time with the Voltron team. Most of the experiences he honestly cherishes because they're so much better than the hell that preceded them. Even the worst he can suffer quietly, with aplomb.

Mud, however, remains one of his least favorite. The only good thing about mud is that it can be washed off.

This particular mud is failing at even that.

“This is _foul,_ Keith.”

Keith grins smugly from just outside the shower door in the officers’ quarters the two of them have been sharing. “You smell like something Kosmo dug up.”

“Wow, thanks. I see where your loyalty lies.”

 _Keith_ didn't have to slog through two and a half miles of muck; no, he got to sit pretty in Black’s cockpit and give directions while Shiro did all the legwork. (As well it should have been; Keith's still recovering from the crash. Shiro's going to be nervous about him doing anything strenuous for at least another month.)

But that left Shiro to stomp around looking for the well-hidden refugee encampment in the back end of a marsh. A nasty marsh with a reek like the sludge at the bottom of a bag of lettuce that’s been forgotten in the crisper for three months, with faint overtones of dog shit and carrot juice-turned-slime mold (don’t ask). A rank, sticky, _disgusting_ marsh that somehow found every single point of entry in his uniform and seeped through to glue itself to his skin.

Shiro is, understandably, not best pleased. He should’ve just worn his old Paladin armor, proven impervious to any manner of foulness, instead of capitulating to Garrison uniform protocol. He’s a captain now. He can make those calls.

The whole uniform was a lost cause, even the boots, and Shiro had stuffed it all into a bag and dumped it into the garbage as the first opportunity. They’d gotten everyone out, though, including the injured little girl they'd been most worried about; she's in the Garrison infirmary now, getting the patented Coran treatment complete with incomprehensible jokes and some sort of Altean confection that is entirely unlike a lollipop.

The only thing left to do is to get this layer of filth off of himself.

He’s been standing under the shower spray for what feels like hours, scouring himself with the gritty contents of the tub of ‘Shiro, holy crap, do us all a favor and don’t come back out here until all of this scrub is _gone,_ for the love of god’ that Lance had shoved at him, and he’s made minimal progress.

“I don’t think I’ve been this gross since the arena,” Shiro says, running the washcloth over his knee again. He means it to sound light and facetious, but something of his genuine discomfort must show through because the teasing smile drops from Keith’s face.

“Do you want help?”

“...Please.”

In short order, Keith shucks his own clothes and joins Shiro under the spray, capturing the washcloth as he steps close.

All Shiro can say is that he’s grateful the mud never got higher than halfway up his thighs. A couple rounds with the shampoo have removed the stench that clung to his hair, at least. Small mercies. He doesn’t think he’d be able to sleep with that invasion in his sinuses.

The mud on his legs sticks like green-brown paint, hanging on in messy streaks. His skin is red and tingling where he’s been scouring, and at this point, even the water running over him feels rough and sandpapery.

When Keith starts in on his knee where it’s propped up with his foot on the bench, Shiro bites back a hiss at the touch.

“Shiro?”

“It’s fine, Keith; I just want this stuff _off.”_

“It hurts, though, doesn’t it?” Keith asks, laying a watery kiss on his shoulder. “Sorry. I’ll try to be careful.”

He slips the washcloth down Shiro’s knee in slow circles, barely applying any pressure at all.

Shiro is rough with himself these days. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy soft touches, but he’s become accustomed to a certain level of asceticism. He prefers not to think it has anything to do with his— his _captivity,_ god, he needs to find a better word for it— but even with the mellowing of time and distance, every scar is a reminder, and the fact remains that he doesn’t indulge in pampering anymore. Not like he used to, once upon a time.

Keith, though. Keith is rough with himself, too, but he saves up all his gentleness for Shiro.

He glides the cloth over Shiro’s skin, behind his knee, following the tendon up to hamstring and then down over scarred calf, and the body scrub hardly even feels gritty anymore with how lightly he presses. And yet, when he strokes back up over Shiro’s shin, the mud is starting to come free. Shiro was all but sanding his own skin off, but somehow Keith’s light touch is getting better results than long minutes of stinging work.

With a deep sigh, Shiro finally relaxes. He didn't realize how much the expectation of pain had tightened his body until Keith soothes away the tension.

Another kiss on his shoulder, a third, trailing up toward his neck through the rivulets of water. “Better?”

Shiro tilts his head to rest on Keith's. “Much better,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

The minutes stretch as Keith works over his legs, lifting the mud with gentle strokes. They stay close. Keith curves around his body, all wet skin and firm muscle and wonderful familiarity. Hot water pours over them from the showerhead.

By the time Keith has massaged away the grime all the way down to his ankles, Shiro feels like he’s made of marshmallow.

“Sit down,” Keith says, breaking the quiet. “Let me get your feet.”

Shiro shuffles until he can lower himself to the bench, mostly out of the spray. Keith kneels in front of him. The tile is steam-warm behind Shiro’s back, and Keith’s hands are gentle as they lift each ankle in turn, and the fruity scent of the body scrub is finally overpowering the bog stench. Shiro lets himself drift.

When both his feet are back on the floor, Keith kisses the inside of his knee.

“Done?” Shiro asks softly. He’s not sure when he closed his eyes, but he opens them to see Keith looking up at him heatedly.

“Inspection, Captain?”

With a smile a little too slow to be properly teasing, Shiro says, “Good work, Black Paladin,” and smoothes down his wet hair. “Thank you, Keith. Really.”

Keith kisses his knee again, then leans his face on it, languid, eyes shut. The shower spray rebounds from his back and breaks into mist that catches on his lashes, on his cheeks, in his hair. The drops twinkle like stars in the light.

Shiro leans forward to taste them.

With an appreciative hum, Keith twists to expose more of his neck to Shiro’s mouth. Dark hair clings to his wet skin. Shiro sips the water from the edge of his jaw and follows up with gentle kisses, draping his upper body over his own thighs and circling his left arm around Keith’s shoulders. Making a humid cave, hiding their faces from the spray.

He’s been experimenting with the new arm. The extension of his reach still catches him off guard sometimes, but right now the way he traces Keith’s spine _all_ the way down is absolutely intentional.

“Shiro,” Keith sighs, and shifts. Shiro’s hand skims lower, slow, intimate. When he gets a handful of soft skin over relaxed buttock — one of the only places Keith is truly soft — and kneads, Keith stutters a breath and tips their mouths together; the angle of the kiss is hopelessly awkward, almost upside down, but they make the best of it. Keith tastes like water.

Everything is lazy and wet and warm. They kiss for a long time. Shiro’s neck is starting to hurt from the position, but he doesn’t want to stop.

He doesn’t want to undo all the good Keith’s massage has done, though, so he cups one of Keith’s toned glutes in his metal hand and urges him up. Keith unfolds slowly, like an egret unbending its long legs, and rises until he can settle in Shiro’s lap, attached at the lips all the while.

Seeing Keith move leaves Shiro stunned all over again at how gorgeous Keith is, how wonderfully solid, how good it feels when his firm legs fold over Shiro’s thighs and squeeze. Shiro curls his flesh hand around the back of Keith’s neck and draws him deeper into the kiss. His metal hand stays on Keith’s butt, keeping him close, keeping all that warm, wet skin pressed against his own where he can appreciate it. Keith winds one arm around his shoulders and trails the other hand over Shiro’s chest, circling one nipple. Shiro moans.

The shower runs on.

 

“Lance gave me this stuff, right?” Shiro says, many watery kisses later. Keith shifts in his lap, releasing Shiro’s shoulder and leaning back enough to let Shiro lift the container between them, but he keeps his other hand right where it is: tracing over Shiro’s hardening length.

“And?” Keith prompts when Shiro trails off.

“Right, um.” God, that hand is distracting. Keith keeps gliding wet fingers along the underside and Shiro’s mind is rocking in waves with the rhythm. “And… and he said I'm not supposed to come back out until it's gone.” They both eye the tub. About a third of the contents remain. “So we'll just have to use it up.”

“Shiro.” Keith looks suddenly alarmed. “Shiro, it's a scrub, it's like _sandpaper,_ it won't work as lube—”

“Wh— _Keith!_ No, no, no. Oh my god.” Shiro muffles his laughter in the space under Keith's ear, surrounded by dripping water and wet hair. “No, I want to _wash_ you. You take such good care of me and I want to return the favor.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You don't have to sound so relieved about it. Did you really think I would try…? Don’t answer that.”

Keith’s ears are redder than the heat of the water can account for, but he’s laughing, so Shiro takes it as a win. “After, Shiro,” Keith says. “Wash _after.”_

“After what?” Shiro asks, all innocence, just to wind Keith up.

It works beautifully. Keith looks up from under his sopping hair as if to say, _what the hell do you think?_ Then his grip tightens, and he strokes Shiro firmly, root to tip, and Shiro’s next thought is lost in a moan.

“Shiro,” Keith murmurs, and wait, what is he doing? For some unfathomable reason, he’s letting go of Shiro and rearranging his weight like he’s going to stand up again. Shiro isn't keen on allowing that. He clings, flesh and metal hands both trying to trap Keith in place, but Keith’s progress in inexorable; fortunately, he doesn’t seem to be going far. His knee prods Shiro’s own. Shiro spreads accordingly.

Then Keith is sliding his hand behind Shiro’s knee, lifting up, slipping his own folded leg back underneath so Shiro’s hips are twisted up into _his_ lap instead of the other way around.

Shiro amends his earlier stance. Not so unfathomable after all; no, he likes this development quite a lot.

“You know what _does_ work as lube?” Keith asks, low and heated in Shiro's ear as his hand finds Shiro's cock again and resumes stroking. “Conditioner.”

“What have you been getting up to in here while I've been off giving speeches?” Shiro teases breathlessly. God, Keith's hand feels good.

“I could tell you… or I could show you.”

“Show me. Please.”

Keith hauls Shiro's knee higher. Shiro drapes it around Keith's waist and brings his other leg up, too, letting the angle tilt his hips further into Keith's lap, and then stalls as their position registers. Keith's halfway off the bench — it's not a very deep bench, it barely fits Shiro as it is — resting on one knee with his other leg stretched behind him to brace on the tile floor.

“Nothing strenuous, remember?” Shiro cautions softly, curving his flesh hand around the corner of Keith's jaw.

“Holding you up isn’t a strain,” Keith says, giving him an unimpressed look. Then nimble fingertips find his frenulum and Shiro losses the capacity to fret.

With the hand that had been supporting Shiro's knee, Keith searches out the bottle of conditioner. Shiro is in no shape to help, even if he wanted to; the shower spray hits his legs where they’re still oversensitive and tingly from the scrubbing, Keith's other hand keeps working over his cock, and Shiro's brain is rapidly turning to pleasure-drunk mush. He groans, sinking down on the bench until he's nearly folded in half between Keith and the wall.

Desire sets him floating, lost in the fall of water and the way Keith keeps circling touches under the head of his cock, but then there are slippery fingers nudging under him, behind his balls, and Shiro gasps, his focus sharpening abruptly.

“Hi,” Keith says, smirking. He brushes over Shiro's entrance.

Shiro wants to sass back at him, but the slide of fingers has rendered him all but wordless. “Mmm,” he says instead. “Ah. Keith.”

Then Keith presses one finger in, slow but continuous pressure to open him up, and Shiro moans.

One, then two fingers, curling inside him, searching out the places that make him writhe, thrusting in and out heartbreakingly slow. Shiro’s arms encircle Keith’s shoulders, clinging weakly. Even just this is enough to undo him, leave him twisting against the wall and tangled around Keith, his body unconsciously seeking more.

Keith gives him more. Two fingers become three, briefly, and then there’s a little jostling as Keith shifts them around to slick himself with more conditioner and line himself up.

“Oh, Keith, _yeah,”_ Shiro whispers into Keith’s lips where he can hear it over the patter of water falling on tile, and tips his head back as Keith’s cock presses inside.

“Fuck, _Shiro.”_

By slow inches, Keith works all the way in, until Shiro’s rim is tight around the base of him, until Shiro’s hips are cradled in his lap. Shiro is full, thrumming with a relaxed sort of tension — ready for more, god, _please,_ but somehow also perfectly content to stay still, held in Keith’s embrace and holding him in turn. Their bodies fit together.

The shower rains steadily on his raised legs, on Keith’s back, the water running down; it all swirls together inside Shiro, every touch, every drop of water on his tender skin, every slight shift of contact as they breathe, the hum of the stretch where he’s joined with Keith. The buildup of sensation draws a long, wavering sigh from his throat.

Keith noses his cheek, gentle but insistent, until Shiro meets him in a kiss that almost immediately drifts into simply breathing against each others’ mouths.

The first full thrust is like the first note in a symphony — hushed stillness, then a confident swell of sound and motion. Keith draws back and pushes in, sliding easily. Again. Slow, steady, relaxed in a way he usually isn’t, but the atmosphere they’ve created for themselves here in this bathroom is warm and languid and Keith’s rhythm carries the same indolence. He’s _taking care._ Saving up his gentleness and spending it on Shiro.

Affection swells in Shiro’s chest; he’s giddy with it, has to kiss Keith’s soft lips and share it with him. He loves this man so much.

The arm braced on the wall next to Shiro’s head tenses as Keith takes the kiss and turns it hot; Keith’s other hand is splayed around the back of Shiro’s hip, holding him up, pulling him in, keeping him right where he needs to be. They breathe in steam as they lean into each other with hungry lips.

When Shiro sucks on Keith’s tongue, Keith bucks in a sudden thrust that makes Shiro gasp.

Keith does it again. And again. Faster, deeper.

Shiro’s head lolls back onto the tile wall, his arms go tight and limp in turns on Keith’s shoulders; he’s utterly undone, carried along for the ride as pleasure builds.

Every thrust of Keith’s cock inside him sends Shiro higher, adds another degree to the heat melting him. The water sluicing over his legs makes his whole body tingle with overstimulation. All his nerves are lit up, sparking under his skin. He clamps down on Keith’s cock in a search for more and Keith groans, dragging him closer, snapping his hips up sharply. Shiro welcomes it; he tightens again, to similar effect.

He seeks Keith’s lips with his own.

“Shiro,” Keith pants into his open mouth. “Shiro, Shiro, ah, _Shiro.”_

Squeezing his legs around Keith’s waist, Shiro kisses him, licks deep into his mouth, breathes his air as Keith fucks into him. The gentleness burns away; Keith is no less caring, but it’s frenzied now, searching, dragging the both of them toward the peak with the fiery determination that Shiro knows and loves so well.

Keith clutches him tight, thrusting in— and then his cock drags over Shiro’s prostate just right; Shiro shouts, short and bitten-off, his back tensing against the tile.

“Yeah?” Keith asks around a moan, speeding up. His hand moves from Shiro’s shoulder down to grip his cock and tug.

 _“Keith—_ oh god, Keith, ah—” He’s scrabbling at Keith’s arms, his neck, his hair, gasping and twisting helplessly as the pressure builds, and builds, and—

Firmly, Keith swipes his thumb under the head of Shiro’s cock, timing it with a fierce thrust, and Shiro falls apart. His breath stalls out in his throat as he comes in Keith’s hand, pulses of sticky white landing on their wet skin. Keith groans, fucks into him even harder, and then he’s curving down over Shiro and shuddering his own release deep inside.

They stay there for a while, catching their breath and trailing sloppy, uncoordinated kisses across whatever skin they can reach. Water is still hitting Shiro’s legs as they fall open around Keith’s hips; just when it starts to feel like too much, Keith shifts and pulls out, giving Shiro room to escape the spray.

“Hey,” Keith says quietly, still leaning his upper body over Shiro, kissing him softly as he rearranges their legs and settles in Shiro’s lap again.

Once he seems comfortable, Shiro loops both arms loosely around his waist. “Hey, yourself.”

“Feeling better now?”

Shiro kisses him in answer, a slow, deep thing full of tongue and breath and wordless sounds of appreciation.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Keith says eventually, when he has his lips back again.

Now that his hunger for Keith’s mouth is temporarily sated, Shiro surveys the wreckage: his own come is smeared on both of their stomachs, and he can feel Keith’s leaking out of him onto the bench.

“Guess now we have a reason to use up that scrub,” he says with a low laugh.

“You can’t even stay clean when you’re in the shower,” Keith says, but he's laughing, too.

“And whose fault is that?” Shiro asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Uh, yours. Unless this is someone else's come we're wearing…?”

Point.

“Jeez, it got on my _elbow,_ Shiro. How did you do that?”

“I think that's _on you.”_

“…Did you just—”

Shiro smiles, even when Keith refuses to kiss him as punishment. ( _Pun_ ishment. Ha. Shiro knows better than to say that one aloud.)

The kiss ban withers away before the 30-second mark — Shiro is adept at pushing Keith's buttons, but he also knows how to cool him down again. They take their time washing each other, gentle hands spreading the scrub until the tub is empty, and this time it’s purely for the joy of it. The mud and the exhaustion are long forgotten, buried under the water and the warmth of Keith’s laugh and the sweet, fruity soap smell that’s filled the bathroom.

Keith’s touch is slow and light on the new scar tissue around Shiro’s shoulder socket. Shiro is soft in turn when he passes over the fading marks of Keith’s bruises and scrapes, because Shiro saves up all his own gentleness for Keith, too.

 


End file.
